The Art of Flower Arrangements
by kheelwithit
Summary: The only way I'd date anyone again is if he bought me a thousand flowers. Fine.
1. The Art Of The Arrangement

Floral Arrangements

-Kheelwithit-

_Ha, the only way I'd date anyone again is _

_if he bought me a thousand flowers. _

_Fine._

Chapter One

The Art of The Arrangement

"Elizaveta, you really should just give in, sweetie,"

A consoling hand reaches over to separate me from one of my greatest friends, alcohol.

"Damnit, Emma, I-I dun' need yer damn *hic* worriessss~ I need this booze... no-Nonononoooooo men. Nopie. Not for Eliiiizaaaaa~ "

The girl from Belgium worries for her friend, after all, denying relationships and drinking to the excessive was, in her experience, regarded as unhealthy behaviour.

"You really don't have to swear off of these sorts of things. Relationships and heartbreak and death are perfectly normal parts of life,"

The very much inebriated girl shoots up from her seat, slamming her fist agressively against the table.

" It is not! Heartbrokennessness is a tebirrle diseeeease that's worse than AIDS 'nd cancers"

The other patrons at the bar giggle at Elisa's alcohol fueled outburst as the bartender sweeps away her cup and guestures for Emma to take her friend home. Elisaveta sinks her hands into her brown hair and her arse into a brown stool. Everything is brown for her today. Coke and rum is brown like the walls like her hair like the chair like the bartender's skin like the table like the dress Emma's in and like shit.

Shit's brown too.

She feels brown like shit.

"Come on, now, time to go home, dear"

Eliza doesn't protest, eager to have another day gone and passed. She mumbles drunken goodbyes to the cubana from Havana behind the bar, and he nods to her. Guided out on tottery feet by steady hands, Elizaveta leaves her friend, walks down her street, has a chat with the flowerman at her corner, goes home to her apartment and tries not to think of how rediculously brown and lonley she feels.

Emma is completely justified in worrying for her friend.

Morning arrives with a spring in it's step and the news drones on about yesterday nights showers and today's hectic traffic. Elizaveta has a job, so she is forced to arrive with it, sans the step springing. This season can step its springy self right up the arse of someone who cares. Elizaveta just wants to have the day behind her as quickly as possible. Into he shower. Brush teeth. Make up. It's routine.

Toweling off her hair, she waltzes through the house in the nude, dresses, and eats breakfast at a table for two in as quiet of an atmosphere as she can make. Her headache can't take any Chopin right now. No matter how angry she feels. One of these days she's gonna stop drinking on Sundays. The same day that she forgets why she likes playing Chopin when she's cross, and hell freezes over. She throws half a bowl of unfinished Apple Jacks down the drain and slips cute black heels over sheer black tights, grabs her navy peacoat and purse, steps out the door and

Falls flat on her ass the second her foot touches the floor.

Really? Her rumpus asks her feet. Did ya really have to forget how the hell to walk? Elizaveta shares the same sentiment. The culprit for her spill is a package on the floor that waits quietly for her attention. And it gets it, but only after Eliza has stood and brushed off her very upset, but not bruised arse. It's wrapped up in last weeks newspaper and tied in a pretty complicated bow of simple red twine. Tug. Pull. Pry. Uncle. That knot is too damn hard. Out comes the trusty pocket knife.

Snip. Better. Open the paper- huh, didn't know the mayor was running for a second term- A book.

Aah. Probably Feli's. Thin, black paperback and a lilly on the cover. The stupid mailman kept sending the mail that belonged to Feliciano to her, and hers to Feliciano. Which was stupid, because she hadn't lived in the apartment across the hall for two years. She couldn't. That apartment was for two. There was only one of her. Yeah.

_Knock knock. _

_"B_e~ buon giorno, Eliza~"

"Morning, hey, look, I'm going to work, but it looks like the mail guy dropped off the wrong package. Were you expecting a book?

"Mou, no time for small chat, then.. I didn't order no boo-"

"Any" Lovino's voice comes from the back of an overstuffed brown leather armchair Elizaveta can see from the crack in the door.

"Si, s, fratello. Sorry, bella, I didn't order any books. Ya should'a gave-"

"Should have given,"

"You should have given it to me after you got back, if you were already downstars, si?"

What?

"What?"

"Well, 's jus' that the mailbox it'sa all the way down there, si? So go just take it ta work an' give it to me tomorrow other than runnin up six flights of stairs, be?"

"I didn't get this from my mailbox,"

He peers over her shoulder at the paper mess.

"It didn't come from mailmain, maybe? A suprise gift,"

"It's, is, just go, instead of. Speak right, chigi,"

"Fratello ~ gimme a break, eh?"

"No,"

Elizaveta doesn't hear anymore of what promises to be another hilarious Vargas conversation. She's too busy running out the door, almost tripping on the stairs, (don't you _dare_, says rumpus) and leaping into her car to battle the early morning satan-traffic.

When she gets to work, the litle black lilly book sits in the top drawer of her desk, missing her attention. The mysterious sender is leaving another package at her door.

One down, nine hundred and ninety nine to go.


	2. The Other Side Of The Arrangement

Floral Arrangements

-kheelwithit-

_Ha, the only way I'd date anyone again is _

_if he bought me a thousand flowers._

_Fine._

Chapter One and a Half

The Other Side of the Art of The Arrangement

On the corner of Sopron and Antalya, there are two places of great significance. A sky blue apartment building and a Flower shop across the street.

The Flower Shop is called Fleur de Lis and it's owned by a Frenchman who knows nothing about flower arrangements, but everything about selling products and flirting and illegal things.

And that's why he hired Sadiq Adnan.

Sadiq, unlike Francois, the owner, knows everything there is to know about flowers. The hundreds of thousands of things they can mean, how to grow them, find them, and arrange them in ways that make people buy them like bottled water. One might think that Mr. Adnan would be pretty well paid, or popular, or at some other place where his skills would be more appreciated instead of a little shop in Seattle where he stays cooped up with his coworkers and arranges bouquets and nosegays all day that'll never be properly appreciated. He is well paid, but isn't popular; people think him to rambunctious or large in a city full of rain and technology when he grew up in Istanbul, where everything is sunlight and artifacts.

He stays at the Fleur de Lis in particular because of what's in the other significant place on the corner.

Inside that apartment building resides the love of his life.

Only, she doesn't know it yet. He's working on that bit. But before that, he actually has to work. There'll be plenty of time for that later. He walks his bike up the curb, locking it up at the bike rack in the side alley before walking inside the shop, careful to duck the low doorway as he enters. He really hates this shop. It's all pale and white and baby blue with little bunches of flowers in pails on the walls and old antiques and shells and a giant silhouette of a lighthouse decorate the wooden walls of the shop. It shouldn't be like that. Looks too dreary in the rain, like some disgusting scene in an indie movie. It should be bright.

"_Bonjour, _Sadiq. Kiku is in the back. We've already two orders, mm?" Sadiq grumbles and waves off the greeting, hanging up his scarf and jacket before hauling himself over the counter and moving back the curtain to the back room. Sadiq **does** like it here. It's the polar opposite of that Frenchman's shitty taste. It's always bright in color and booming with base heavy funk that Francis always tells them to turn down when customers start coming in. Heracles glares at him when he plunks himself down at the wooden workbenches in the room.

"Could you be any more loud?" Sadiq narrows his eyes and bangs two metal canisters of glitter together. His coworker winces and growls.

"Ohayo, Adnan-san," A small man in a too formal clothes holding bags comes in from the back door entrance, untying his shoes and setting them neatly against the door. Sadiq smiles and bends down to untie his own boots.

"Kiku. Ya' got the stuff?" Kiku laughs and gestures to both bags in his hands. Sadiq tosses his black boots next to the door too, right on top of Heracles' sandals.

"Which stuff?" He sets his cargo onto the polished table.

"The _important_ stuff," Sadiq digs through one, a box of Shipley's Donuts, coffee for the three of them, a stack of napkins, and a carton of ice cream. He doesn't even bother with the second; it's filled with spray glue and ribbon. It's pretty clear to anyone with a brain which is more important. The ice cream goes into the fridge in the corner and he pat's Kiku's hair in thanks. Heracles shifts around a small pile of papers on the other end of the table and slides on sheet out, gesturing for everyone's attention.

"Today, we're suppos'd to be doing a funeral arrangement from a lover and a... ki... kinche..." Sadiq snatches the paper out of his hands.

"A quincinera, dunce," Kiku raises an eyebrow. Over years working with the man, everyone in the back understands that he, as someone not born in America, has no fuckin' clue what that term means.

"The fifteenth birthday, filos. 's suppos'd to be importan' for Mexicans 'r something..." It makes no damn sense that Heracles should be so damn tired at 8 o' clock. Sadiq supposes it's that useless Greek blood. Kiku shrugs and nods, unpacking the spray glue bag that Sadiq ignored.

"Alright, pansies, let's get fuckin' started," Kiku sighs and obeys, reaching for the dozens of buckets of flowers that line the walls and setting out flowers. Buckets of yew, sweet peas, harebells and forget-me-nots line up on the table. Heracles lays his head on his on his arms.

"Che-" Kiku presses a tiny hand against his chest, pushing him back into his seat. He walks around to the other end of the table, sits next to his friend and lays his head on his shoulder. Talk about giving false hope.

"Heracles-san, please give me your best today, ne?" And feta-breath blushes and shuffles his feet against the carpet and raises his head, giving his whole attention. Kiku's got that freak wrapped around his _hand_- fuck the _pinky. _

"...Pussy," Sadiq however, gets no such treatment from his Greek frenemy and they are content to try and kill each other whenever Kiku looks away.

"Sadiq, really, you shouldn't make such fun of him. Treasure your friends more,"

"Who told you he was my friend?" Heracles beats him to it. They're of the same mind about something, at least. Kiku sighs and snatches up some black ribbon from a carrier that hangs like a chandelier above them. Heracles grabs the canisters of glitter, spray glue and tissue wrapping paper from a terra cotta vase next to the curtained entrance. Sadiq takes a bucket of Adonis and Asphodel as a side thought.

And then they make art.

Red Adonis for sorrowful remembrance, asphodel for regrets, sweet peas for tender memories, yew for sorrow again (because once will never be enough) harebell for grief, forget-me-nots for true love. All wrapped up in a sad sheer black ribbon and wrapped in white tissue.

All in all, it takes ten minutes. Sadiq's job is harder than most think it is. Kiku arranges them in pleasing ways, all according to some Feng Shui shit, Sadiq himself picks them out, and more times than not, Heracles steps back and tells them if it's shit or not. They do _hella _good.

"Good," Heracles gingerly picks up the bouquet and moves to the front to give to Francis. Sadiq can hear his French exclamations from the other side of the curtains and over the music. Heracles comes back with no small amount of annoyance on his face. Sadiq can almost nearly very closely feel almost the tiniest twinge of pity. With that many almost-type words, he guesses he doesn't really pity the bastard at all. Go figure.

"Heracles-san, the time for the next one?"

"Four thirty," Sadiq's job is harder than most think it is, but it's outdone by the sheer amount of whatever-the-fuck-he-wants-to-do-ness about it all. Kiku slides a laptop from his bag by the door. Heracles takes out a tattered copy of some ancient philosophy. Sadiq grabs out his own laptop and a notebook; they all grab a donut.

He opens his notebook to the most recently doodled on page. Fuckin' cliché, he knows, but he does draw. Sometimes, very rarely. And when he does, its always _her._ All brown curls and eyes green like nothin' he's ever fuckin' _seen _and curves and pouty lips and everything about that woman is just so _intense. _All of his doodles, for all of their awesomeness (_he _drew them, so their default state is automatically awesome) he's never been able to get it _right. _He thinks back to when he saw her, and every time he does, he can remember _everything,_ but it never quite gets it right.

_Klinglejingle_

_"Heya, little lady, can I help you?" He'd been taking over the shop, Francis left like he always did because according to him, 'the French do not work after six, ma belle'. He'd already a pretty great guess. She had stockings on, for one. Formal occasion. And she had no spot of color on her. All black. She didn't even bother answering. She just nodded and sort of.. ghosted to the counter. And then she looked at him. Her eyes were red and puffy._

_"Hard day?"_

_"Ya got no idea," She wrung her hands together and it looked like she might cry all over again. He gives her the courtesy of looking away and showing her to a chair._

_"So what are you?" He's running through basic procedures. She'd obviously come for a funeral. She could be a mother, a lover, a child, a sister, anything._

_"_Excuse _me?" Her green eyes had hardened in a second, daring him to say something wrong._

_"No, no, not like that. What are you? A mother, daughter, sister. It matters. We'll customize your message in the bouque-"_

_"Don't you think you're skipping a few steps?" She was _cold _when she was angry._

_"No, don't think I am. You're here for a funeral bouquet, right?" Her stare falters, because it's true. _

_"And how did you know? I could be a bridesmaid," _

_"In all black? In pantyhose? And crying?"_

_"What the- I wear _stockings_ everywhere. And I'm not crying,"_

_"You were," She snuffles again. _

_"Fianc- lover," Sadiq can feel complication in the air that's thick like gravy. _

_"How soon?" She looks like she could kill him._

_"Do you need it. I mean," The look still lingers a bit, but it's mostly gone. _

_"A.S.A.P., please, I'm already running late.." He nods and moves to the back room to do it. Kiku and Heracles are gone, so this time he works alone. _

_Rosemary, sage, wormwood, willow, wallflowers, 15 dark, dark red roses, 3 tea roses, periwinkle. Every sad thing he'd seen in her eyes. All wrapped up in a velvet bow and into a black vase. He brings it out to her. She's still in the armchair he'd shown her to, and looks heartbreaking and heartbroken while she's staring out the window at all of the cars passing by, wrapped up in black that makes her look too pale. _

_"Your flowers, Miss..." He flirts at her, and yeah, she's just lost someone, and naw, he won't make a move soon, but hey, he's willing to be the shoulder to cry on for a year or two if he gets this gal._

_"Never you mind that. But thank you. What does it ring up to?" He doesn't mind having a mystery lover either. _

_"For you, nothing,"_

_"….what do you want form me?" Her eyes squint and glare at him like he's set some sort of trap for her. Maybe on a normal day she'd be incomprehensibly spunky. _

_"Nothing. That's the general concept of giving someone one on the house, yaknow?"_

_"I don't need it, how much's it cost?"_

_"Zip. Zilch, nada," He presses the issue._

_"… you're not going to change your mind are you?"_

_"Clever gal. The answer's no. You're having a rough day. Just take it, huh?"_

_She does. And then she stands and walks across the street into the gate of a blue apartment complex, and out of his sight._

His mind can always remember her, his fingers can never quite show it. In physicality, she's perfect. Her hands are poised perfectly, her chin tilted up, the blur of cars behind her, the shade of her eyes and the way they reflected in the glass, the way her long shapely legs crossed delicately at the ankles. But no matter how many times he fills out pages, he doesn't feel elation, or sorrow. So it's not good enough.

"_Boys~_ another one," Francis peeks through the curtain and tosses a little notecard on the floor; he hates being back here. Says its all clash and no chic. Sadiq does have to agree that it sorta' clashes. Kiku's adoration for anything cutesy, Heracles' unnatural obsession with kitty stuff and philosophy and wrestling and Sadiq's own miscellaneous odds and ends all jumble together. But he likes it. Better to be interesting than dull like Francis' themes. There'll simply be nothing ever exiting about lighthouses and seashells to him. Kiku nods and picks up the index card, which is good, 'cause _they _certainly weren't gonna get it.

"Marriage. Nosegays, bouquets for the bride and her maids, six of those, the tables, the pews, the flower girls and corsages for eighty two women and fifty nine men. Theme's blue. The due date is Friday," Sadiq's head meets the table. Today is Wednesday They've got a big one.

"Do they want anything specific?" Heracles is already penning down details on a calendar on the wall (covered in ridiculously tiny kittens in mugs)

"She likes asters,"

"Stupid," Asters are for thinking about it. Not marrying. Marriage is commitment.

"What do you want to use, Adnan?" Sadiq inhales through his nose. What to use, what to use... he drums his fingers against the table.

"I waaaant... basil. Bluebells, daisies, more forget-me-nots, runnin' low, tons a' Ivy for the pews, orchids, myrtle, periwinkle, blue violets and ninety nine whole roses. Thornless, ledonias, champagne, and red," Kiku looks horrified. Heracles looks unamused.

"Unrealistic, bastard. Too much. Cut it down," Sadiq growls.

"Then she shoulda made a fuckin' budget," Francis peeks back again.

"Gentlemen, our clients wants to know more, panicky bride alert," He warned them. And for that at least, he is grateful. They look at Kiku. Kiku looks at them.

"You_ will_ both accompany me out there," Heracles pouts, Sadiq glares.

But Kiku glares just a bit harder. They get up and follow him outside, not bothering with their shoes. A panicky exhausted lady is outside in the chair by the French windows, flipping through a binder and tapping buttons on a calculator. It looks more like she's doing math homework than planning a wedding. At her side is another, much angrier looking woman who looks like she might explode if she doesn't get her way, is giving the panicked lady orders for how to operate a calculator because she's 'too stupid to do anything right'. Sadiq smells a bad nut.

"Oh! Thank goodness you're here! I need to know _everything,"_ The sick woman with the calculator rubs her temples. Heracles leads her to the armchair like a gentleman, taking her by the hand. The bride plops down second before the nervous woman does. Sadiq doesn't like her. He brings the nervous lady a comfortable ottoman instead. She sits and quietly puts her head in her hands.

"Fire away, Miss..." He sits on the floor and can see that she's slightly unnerved by his appearance. He certainly doesn't look like he belongs here, all darkwash jeans and t-shirts and no shoes or manners, unlike Francis, who doubtless buttered her up with fancy-shmancy dressing and foreign educations and subtle flirting and expensive loafers.

"Burhankle," It takes several seconds for Sadiq to get over... psh... Miss _**Burhankle**_.

Because really, who the fuck has a name like that? He nods at her to go on.

"What's the estimate for the average cost of the flowers?"

"Depends on what you want,"

"Well, _obviously_, bouquets for me and my bridesmaids, the flower girl, the decorative sets, the-" She speaks super slow and with exaggerated gesticulations. Sadiq cuts her off.

"No, I actually mean _what kind of flowers_," He can see her eyebrow twitch when he does. He nods to Kiku, who kindly leaves to retrieve a pair of books from behind the counter and brings back posthaste.

"Are ya lookin' for roses? Lilacs? What?"

"_I don't know,_" Comes out of her mouth, the woman that's tagged along looks a bit panicky herself. Sadiq knows exactly what he's brought on, and maybe it makes him a bad person, but he really does want to get that rise out of her; wants to see that notorious Bride-bitchiness that they show on sitcoms.

"Well, then we're jus' gonna have ta' find out, now aren't we?" Sadiq hands her a binder, well, not really, more that he tosses it right onto her perfectly ironed pencil skirt.

"I was thinkin' we'd start ya' off with ninety-nine roses. Love for the rest a' your life an' all that," He flips through his pages, stopping here and there to inspect his options. She opens her mouth to say something-

"We'd dye 'em blue for ya', if ya' wanted. Maybe ledonias, definitely champagne," He looks up for her input. She opens her mouth. He starts again.

"Ivy for fidelity, marriage. Forget-me-nots are true love, but you'll have to pay rush order fees for those, we're runnin' outta stock. Could 'ave bluebells. Constancy. Daisies are innocent, an' basil is best wishes-" She raises a finger, he tilts his head to the ceiling and drones on.

"And the smell of course. Nice and clean. Orchids, myrtle, periwinkle, beauty, fidelity again, memories," He looks at her. Her fingers are digging into the upholstery of the blue armchair and he hopes that bitch doesn't leave holes.

"You got a budget we better cater to?"

"If you'd _let me, _I could tell yo-,"

"Yeah, sorry about that, I won't interrupt," Oooh, he's going to hell. He's practically _sprinting _there. Heracles is glaring at him, Francis is waving his face frantically, Kiku is giving him the hardest glare of_ 'don't do it, you fucking fuck'_ that the universe has ever known.

"I'm sure you won't," He lets her have that sentence. Just the one.

"I thought it would be better to spend less than six hundred," She gestures the number with her hands, holds up six fingers and then makes two big ole' goose egs with her hands. Sadiq is actually so surprised at her utter stupidity he forgets to cut her off in lieu of laughing. Loudly. _Guffaws _practically. It was so funny, he actually_ slapped his knee. _

Francis is behind the counter breathing into a paperbag. Kiku has given up entirely, opting to go back into the back. Heracles watches. The lady in the corner looks on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

"No. It ain' gonna happen Miss... Burcranky? The average bouquet here costs anywhere from 26 to 64 dollars. You need what... two hundred?" Heracles follows Kiku into the back. His hand remains outside the curtain for a second to make a quick flick upwards. Sadiq nods in his direction.

"See? Our cost estimator says more. You'd better be prepared to pay out the _ass _for this shit. Your price range is, sadly, unrealistic," Miss Cankersore's face is plum colored and he thinks Francis may have died a little inside.

"Why I'd-"

"_Never" _Sadiq poses his hand on his chest and mimics the word he knows is going to come out of her stupid lipsticked mouth in a falsetto tone.

"Adnan, out. In the back," Francis is snarling as he goes around the corner, pushing him behind the curtain where Kiku and Heracles are glaring at him.

"Really, Adnan-san, must you always?"

"_Yes_. Well, maybe not that last bit. But serves he right. Did you hear how she was speak-"

"Its _not _your business, Sadiq,"

"And then whose is it feta-boy?"

"_None of ours_. We just _make the flowers,_" Kiku puts his hand on his temple and takes a few deep breaths as he's leaning against the wall. He grabs his jacket and walks out in the rain. Most likely doesn't want to be here when Francis finishes with the customer and comes back to rip him a new asshole. Heracles follows, dick over heels as he is with the other guy, follows.

Sadiq waits for Francis and thinks again about the girl across the street.

_Two years is how long he goes without seeing her in person. Sure he sees her every morning as she goes to work, and yeah every once in a while she walks by the shop, but she doesn't come in. It shouldn't have to be said that he doesn't make contact with her either. But one day, and he doesn't know what in hells name brought her here, but she did come. Stumbled right into the shop late at night. Right before he locked up shop. She collapsed against the door, giggling and snorting and not at all in black again. She's got on tights though.. no. She said they were stockings? Sadiq supposes that she really does wear them all the time, then. Anyways. They're maroon and contrast starkly against the blue little cocktail dress she's got on and the brown boots with heels that must be killing her ('cause it hurts him just to _look _at them) so naturally he opens the door to help her out. She falls flat on her face. He probably shoulda thought that out a bit more. She rolls over and gives him a big doofy grin. _Dazzling_. _

_"Hehehehee- waittasec'nd.. yer' a man," The grin cuts short and she's got that suspicious look on her face._

_"Uh... hello...I er.. I am," He's starstruck because she's _starstriking _when her pearly whites gleaming in the lamplight outside and she probably doesn't even realize it, but while her legs are still outside of the doorway, she's got them spread wide open and the lace of her bra is peeking out of her low cut dress. She's drunk as fuck. It doesn't even occur to him that he could do any number of things to her. He just wants to watch her. _

_"I dun' need no man. 'ready had one. Yaknow whaddedid? _**Died. **_'s just get outta my house," He reiterates. Hella drunk. _

"Do you _know _how close you are to getting fired, Adnan?" Sadiq raises an eyebrow.

"Please- enlighten me, Francis," Maybe it's just him, but he thought it'd be pretty damn simple to see that that was sarcasm. Francis doesn't seem to care, he pinches his fingers really close together, till there's just about two millimeters of space between them. And then he shoves them in Sadiq's face.

"Do it then. Let's see you find someone who'll work for your shitty pay _and _won't report your ass,"

And that's the end of that argument. Francis walks out cursing vehemently in French because once again, he's forgotten that Sadiq's got him by the balls.

You can't fire someone whose got blackmail on you.

If this was a normal situation, he'd be awful for blackmailing his boss.

But then again, you can't have stuff to be blackmailed _with _if you haven't done anything wrong.

He sits back and picks up his thoughts where he left off.

_"Everyone needs love," Usually, he'd be repulsed at quoting that French frog bastard, but she's lookin' pretty blue. And it may or may not be true that he kinda sorta wants to get into her pants. Stockings. Dress? Sue him. _

_"Not.. not me," She looks sad again. Just the way she did a few years back. _

_"D'ya wanna come in?"_

_"This is my own fuckin' house. I dunneed you're persimmon, mister!" Persimmon? Yeah, she needs to get inside. She's too drunk to find her way anywhere else. She wiggles her way into the doorway fully and Sadiq almost has the willpower not to look at her teddy bear panties when her dress wiggles up because of it. She looks around suspiciously- to the lighthouse, the shells on the wall, the stupid paintjob- _

_"Thiss.. 'snot my house. S'too uuuuugly,"_

_"Yeah, I was wondering when you'd notice that," _

_"Pppphbbbtttt"_

_"So why aren't you home right now?" He offers her his hand. She reaches for it. Misses. Again. Misses. Three times. Got it._

_" 'S Sundays. I'm always trashed on Sundays," The woman stands up- teetery and wobbling in her heels and then lets go of his hand, arms spread out at her side to get her balance. Somewhere, a car honks and the girl falls back onto her ass, legs spread open wide. Sadiq looks at the ceiling. _

_"Why's that?"_

_"Roderich. Always always always Roderich," She rolls on to her stomach and army crawls to the armchair in front of the bay window, putting her chin on the chair and pouting. _

_"Wanna tell me about it?"_

_"Don' wanna tell no one. Buzz off," _

_"Wanna go home?"_

_"Youuuuuuu bet'cha," And that's that. With no small amount of skill, they walk across the street to the gate of the sky blue apartment complex and she doesn't even ask how he knows where she lives and she waves him goodbye as she's bent over and fumbling around with her hand in her boot to get something, a key probably. And because that's that, Sadiq waves too. _

_And then he leaves. _

_._

_._

_._

_And then he turns back because he'd really not like this to be that. _

_"Hey, you. Wanna go out on for hot dogs? Wednesday maybe?" _

_"Out?"_

_"On a date," _

_"Ha. The only way I'd date someone again is if they bought me a thousand flowers!" And she opens the gate, slips in, trips on her boots, stands up and closes the gate. _

_"Fine,"_


End file.
